


Painted Wings

by Theconsultingdetective



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Graffiti, M/M, policeman!Dean, street artist!cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/pseuds/Theconsultingdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As street artist Castiel Novak finishes up his newest installment, Officer Winchester stumbles upon the painting repeat offender and decided to cut him a little slack, for reasons he's just not willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If you stood just right, it looked like the wings were yours, like they were sprouting from your back and expanding to carry you through the skies. Castiel had been working on that wall, those wings, for three whole days. Every morning, before even the cops woke up, before the attendants of the church where he was painting his masterpiece opened their god-fearing eyes, he’d ride his bike down to the wall with his backpack full of spray paint canisters and get to work. It was a wonder nobody had seen him, really-his newest instalment wasn’t exactly subtle. It was a massive pair of silver and black wings, expanding across the back wall of the church from end to end on either side of the back door. They were so tall, Castiel needed a crate to reach the tops, where he painted the densest, boldest feathers, the wings seemingly flared out in a display of dominance. There were wings in all his works, though one couldn’t really tell since they’d all been long since painted over. He hated to paint over them, to see every hour of painstaking yet welcome labour covered by thick paint while New York’s finest lingered over his shoulder, but the cops didn’t care what he hated. They just cared what he did.

Castiel flipped over the crate he used and sat on it, leaning on the wall in between the wings so they seemed to appear from either side of his head, which was topped by a slightly curled mop of black and unruly hair. He heard footsteps and, assuming they were coming from inside, stood up and nudged his crate out of the way, leaning casually on the wall out of he way if the door was to open. He kept his bag of paints tucked just inside the door, so the cops wouldn’t find it unless they were really looking.

One did come up to him, once, while he was working on this wall-a new one, one Castiel didn’t recognise, short and weedy and with satellite dish ears.   
“These yours?” he asked.   
“No, officer,” Castiel had replied. He played the innocent very well. “They’re impressive though, aren’t they?” The officer shrugged.   
“Yeah. They’re remarkable.” He shook his head. “Wish I could draw like that.” “What, and get community service?”   
“It’d be worth it, for the skill.” Then it was Castiel’s turn to shrug.   
“Yeah, you say that until you’re spearing trash by the roadsides in hundred degree weather,” he muttered before feigning a phone call. The new officer had apprised the wall a moment more, laughed to himself, and continued on his beat. Castiel hadn’t seen him since (knock on wood).

There was something in the canter of the steps that approached him now, echoing steadily and leisurely, without being sluggish, down the alleyway, that made them sound strong, confident, almost…attractive.   
 _Can you be attracted to footsteps?_  Castiel wondered as he walked back to check down the alley to see who had wandered into his public studio. Finding it empty, he turned to investigate the opposite side. He rarely had company down here-the odd stray cat, teenagers only a year or two younger than him, the occasional chaplain coming out the back door for a post-sermon cigarette-so the sound of footsteps peaked his interest. Upon turning, he found himself only a foot away from a stranger, another face meeting his. A face with large green eyes and fair hair and freckles and stubble. A face belonging to a body that would’ve been nice, had it not been wearing the NYPD uniform.   
“Hello,” Castiel said, stepping back. “What can I do for you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head.   
“You paint these?” the officer asked.   
“No, I didn’t, Doughnuts,” Castiel answered, smirking. “They’re nice, though.” He crossed his arms over his plain black t-shirt and stared up at the wings.   
“Uh huh,” the cop agreed halfheartedly, crossing his arms. 

“Aren’t you a humble one?” he asked, looking Castiel up and down.   
“Yes, I am, thank you for noticing,” he replied. “I consider it one of my many good qualities.” “Is desecration of public property among them?” The officer asked.   
“I’m just trying to bring my art to a wider audience,” Castiel said innocently. “Are you new?” he asked, attempting to get the focus away from the wings. This officer, pretty though he was, seemed like the type to take issue with Castiel’s hobby. The officer shook his head, approaching the wings.   
“I’ve never seen you before,” Castiel added, following him as he walked over to touch their painted feathers.   
“I just got re-assigned,” the cop replied, not turning around. 

“Ooh. You must’ve done something wrong, then, hmm? Turned to the dark side? Gone “bad cop?”” The officer finally did turn, and Castiel leaned on the door, head tilted to look at him. “What makes you say that?” he asked, looking up at the scope of the wings. Castiel scoffed. “This is the most boring part of New York City, obviously,” he replied. “You could catch more criminals in a nursing home. This is like the time out chair of policework-if you get out of hand, you have to come sit here until you learn to apologise.” Dean laughed.   
“Yeah, sounds about right,” he nodded, seemingly at ease. Castiel continued pressing the stranger for answers, leaning off of the door.   
“So what horrible thing have you done, then?” he asked, walking to stand over on the opposite side of him.   
“What’s it to you?” the officer snapped, tensing up suddenly. Castiel shrugged innocently. “I’m just curious, officer,” he replied. “Surely it can’t be that big of a secret, right?” The cop sighed heavily and traced the black lines around the large and curving wings.   
“Got in some trouble. Pursued a case when I wasn’t supposed to. Not a big thing.” He glanced at Castiel, not meeting his gaze. 

“So, you painted these?” he asked, more nonchalant this time.   
“In the words of an acquaintance of mine, “what’s it to you?”” Castiel replied, though there was no malice in his tone.   
A long pause, and then the cop mumbled, “They’re impressive.” Castiel raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.   
“Really? You think so, Officer…”   
“Winchester.” He paused. “Dean Winchester. Dean. And you are…?”   
“Novak. Castiel Novak. Castiel,” the other man replied, matching the cadence and phrasing of the blond officer’s words. Dean furrowed his eyebrows.   
“No relation to Lucas and Michael, I hope…?” Castiel smirked, leaning back against the wall. “Our reputation precedes us,” he answered. “What do you know about my brothers?” He tilted his head, scanning Dean’s face apprehensively.   
“I put both of ‘em in prison,” he replied. “I know a few things.” 

Castiel should’ve been  _pissed._  He should’ve lashed out, thrown a punch at the green-eyed pseudo-stranger and ran the other way before he ended up with five years in prison like his conmen brothers. He wasn’t. Instead, he laughed.   
“Thank you,” he nodded. “You’ve taken a considerable weight off the family shoulders.”   
Dean’s entire face turned questioning. 

“Good to hear, ‘course, but how’s that?” he asked, leaning his shoulder on the wall as they talked underneath the widespread pair of wings. Now that Castiel didn’t have to worry so much about legality, he could look the officer up and down. Kevlar vest, “NYPD” emblazoned on the chest. There was no gun visible, but surely there was one tucked somewhere, even in this, the most boring part of New York.   
“Those two were impossible to deal with,” Castiel replied. “The money they made from their various schemes hardly made up for the obnoxiousness of their line of work.” Dean laughed. “Yeah, I can believe it,” he agreed. “They were no picnic on my end, either.” He backed up away from the wall and admired the wings. “So why aren’t you in Atlantic City or Vegas or somewhere? Carrying on the family business?” he asked.   
“You mind my art that much?” Castiel replied, wounded.   
“Of course not,” Dean answered quickly. “No, I don’t.” Castiel nodded and smiled, satisfied. “I’m more of the petty crimes type, myself. I’m sure you’ve seen my record,” he smirked leaning back against the wall. The officer opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted when his radio chirped and crackled. He unclipped it from his belt and glanced down at the small green-tinted screed, sighing. 

“I’ve gotta go,” he said apologetically, already turning to go back the way he’d come. “Shame,” Castiel replied. “I take it I’m free to go?” Dean glanced over his shoulder and paused. “You are, sure,” he answered eventually. “Although I might need to come back around, make sure you’re not still committing criminal acts,” he added, smirking.   
“No promises,” Castiel called after him, grinning back. “I suggest you keep a close eye on me, Officer. You never know what I’ll do.” Dean chuckled.   
“‘S why I like ya, Cas,” he replied. 

Castiel finished the wings that day, their massive expanse covering the entire church wall. He almost walked off and abandoned the wall, as he did with all his works once he completed them, but as he walked down the alley, a thought occurred to him. He took the can of black spray paint from his bag and crouched down by the bottom corner of the wall.   
“Officer W-” he wrote, “next instalment @ Lawrence and Garden Rd. Take a break from your beat and come try and stop me?” He left the spent paint can by the note and hopped onto his bike, peddling off with renewed enthusiasm.

 


	2. A Serious Emergency

          “You’re late,” Castiel chastised, not looking away from the blank wall he was staring up at, can of navy blue spray paint in one hand.  
“You weren’t very specific on the invite, Cas. My apologies,” Dean replied sarcastically. “So, what’s this one?” He stood next to Castiel, arms crossed tight over his chest, looking over at him with one eyebrow cocked curiously.  
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Castiel shrugged with a smirk. He knew exactly what he was going to paint, of course-he never embarked on a project without a specific plan in mind. And today, he definitely had a plan. 

          “So, how many laws have you broken since yesterday?” Dean asked, flipping over a milk carton and sitting down on it. He’s settling in for the long-term, it seems to Cas. And he can’t say he minds.  
“Just a handful,” the younger man replied. “I sped down the highway in my car…ran a few red lights…” He looked over at the officer, still decked out in his blue uniform, and asked innocently, “I’m not in trouble, am I?” Dean crossed his legs a little, and Castiel thought, “real subtle, officer,” but didn’t mention it.  
“I’ll cut you a break. If,” he tempted, “you tell me what you’re painting.”

           Castiel sighed and shook up the can of spray paint, leaning against the wall to eye the officer.  
“A portrait,” he answered after a pause, not at all threatened by Dean’s obviously joking deal.  
“Of?” Castiel grinned.  
“‘A Portrait of the Officer as a Young Man,’” he replied. Dean smiled a small smile and nodded.  
“You want me to pose?” he teased. Castiel looked him up and down, leaned off the wall, and muttered, “Not this time,” bringing a hot blush to the policeman’s cheeks, before setting down to work. 

          Even Dean had to admit that Castiel did good work. He seemed to capture Dean’s very essence in the painting-clean lines unexpectedly created by the undervalued medium he relied on, uniform bright and crisp against the white wall. He did take a few liberties here and there, in the size of the muscles of his calves and the curves and valleys of his arm, outstretched and aiming at a unseen target. He’s in profile, pointing at something just around the corner, his gun’s barrel coming just to the edge of the wall.  
“God, am I that sculpted?” the policeman smirked, standing up to look at the wall.  
“You’re not bad,” Castiel shrugged nonchalantly. He painted a gun into his hand with a few quick swipes of the black spray paint, tweaking the radius of the spray with the nozzle near the top. Black paint stains his fingers and he doesn’t bother to wipe it off, wearing it as a badge of honour. 

          Castiel bent down to pick up the gold spray paint can by Dean’s feet, sitting close together on the pavement as he watched the artist work. He still watches the artist as he leans down to pickup the paint, and Castiel smirks when he stands.  
“What are you looking at, officer?” he asked, standing in front of him. Dean, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, fidgets a little and says, “Hmm? Oh, right. Just watching, um, you work.”  
“Really closely, I can tell,” Castiel half-teases. “I didn’t know you had such an appreciation for the arts.”  
“Any idiot can appreciate beauty…” Den muttered with a shrug. Castiel honest-to-god almost blushes.  
“Thanks,” he mumbled back. He shook the can again, and, in a long stroke, paints the outline of a feathery wing sprouting from the officer’s back. 

          Dean followed his hand with his eyes and looked on in thorough fascination, looking between the painting and the painter as though he didn’t know which was more beautiful.  
“How do you paint these things,” Dean asked, “like they’re nothing? Like they’re so easy for you? You don’t even sketch, it must be really tough…” Castiel shook his head.  
“It’s not. You learn quickly,” he replied. “And much of it is practice. Trial and error. My early work is not half as good as what you see before you today, after all,” he chuckled.  
“Early work?” Castiel laid in the black background, on which the good feathers he’d soon paint would seem luminescent, and nodded  
“I did a number of paintings before I did these most recent ones, this series. I started when I was only 14, you know. That’s four years I’ve been working on these things,” he explained. Dean nodded distractedly.  
“It’s really something.” Castiel picked up the brightest, most verdant green he had and filled in the officer’s eyes with a few short bursts of paint.  
“Thank you, Officer Winchester,” he smiled, turning to face him.  
“Dean,” the officer corrected. “Yeah, you’re welcome. I liked modelling for you.” Castiel smirked and took a step closer. 

          “Mmhm,” he replied plainly. “Maybe you should do it again sometime. In a more personal setting,” he suggested. Dean stood up and stepped towards him, too, closing the gap between them.  
“I’d like that,” he smiled quietly. Without another word, Castiel leaned forward and pressed his lips against Dean’s, anything but chastely, the hand he placed on the officer’ ship leaving a very evident, very undeniable gold-black mark from the paint that had strayed onto his palm and fingers. He pulled back and breathed, “You should come by my place and check in on me sometime. Make sure I’m not committing any major crimes.” Dean was still recovering from the knee-weakening kiss, and barely managed to reply, “Count on it.” 

          Reluctantly, Castiel stepped back and gathered up his paint cans, slipping them into his bag and hopping onto his bike.  
“Another instalment?” Dean asked from where he was still standing, beginning to follow him.  
“I’m thinking a less public work this time, perhaps,” Castiel suggested from the seat of his ten-speed. “Can I call you at 911? It’ll be an emergency,” he teased.  
“Lemme just make this a little easier for you,” Dean chuckled, reaching into his pocket for his notebook.  
“You’re writing me a ticket?” Castiel asked, mock-dumbfounded. Dean scribbled his number and some words down on the sheet of paper, walking over to the other man, perched on his bicycle with one foot on the ground and the other resting on the peddle. Dean walked over to him and slipped the folded up paper into the pocket of his jacket. 

          “Not this time,” he replied, smirking. “But I should, ya know. For seducing an officer.”  
“If that’s an offence, I can’t imagine what crimes I’m going to commit in the near future,” Castiel remarked, eyebrows raised.  
“I can only hope…” Dean muttered. “Call me,” he added as Castiel lifted his other foot to the peddles of his bike, sounding like a desperate teenager. A tinge of sarcasm in his voice, Castiel answered with the same line Dean had used on him not moments ago: “Count on it.” Before either of them can say anything else, he’s off, peddling out of the alleyway back behind the abandoned apartment complex. 

          Dean stood at the feet of the painting for a second and looked up at it, noticing that Castiel had painted him with a small smile on his face, light in his eyes that translates even through the occasionally-imprecise medium. He glanced around the alleyway and found a can of spray paint, left at the foot of the milk crates almost as though Castiel expected him to find it. (Dean feels sure he did.) After shaking it, he crouches by the wall, turns the nozzle as he’d seen Castiel do, and writes, praying Castiel will see it later, “Good work. Nice choice of subject. -D.W.” He omits the “Officer” very intentionally, stands back to his full height with a smile like that in the painting, and walks down the alley and out to where he’s parked his car. 

          When Castiel arrived at his apartment complex, he took out the paper scrap and read the hastily written writing on it, grinning to himself. “Dean Winchester,” it reads, and he’s glad to see that he’d dropped the officer, though if he’s honest there’s something about a man in uniform, then the number underneath, followed by a small arrow and, “for _real_ emergencies.” Castiel ascended the stairs of his building, leaving his bike chained up by the door, and took out his cellphone as he walked.  
“Officer?” he asked after dialling the number, a smirk audible in his voice, “I’m in need of some company. It’s a serious emergency.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a thing now...at the behest of Cindy, justbriannaness, and bri4infinity, (on tumblr) this fic (originally resultant from a prompt on tumblr) is now multi-chapter! I'm making it up as I go along, so be forewarned. More soon!


	3. Intruder

         Dean, of course, said an unhesitant and eager "yes" the second Castiel had extended his offer for dinner. They picked a quiet place in the nicer part of town-Castiel didn't mention that the reason he could get reservations at practically no notice was because his brother Gabriel had done a "favour" for the owner-and set a time, early evening the next night. Castiel was more excited than he'd care to mention, as was evident in the bounce in his step as he climbed the stairs to his third story loft. When he arrived, he was irritated, though not quite surprised, to find someone already there, the door obviously ajar. He snatched up the knife he kept by the door, a gift from Gabriel when he'd travelled to Japan, and set his bag down by the door with a thud.  
"Cassie! You're home!" shouted a voice from his kitchen. Castiel rolled his eyes.  
"Hello, Gabriel. Yes, I am. And so are you, evidently." 

         From the kitchen emerged his brother, well-dressed as he always was the days he got out of prison. He was, unsurprisingly, holding a piece of small fruit-flavoured candy, which he popped into his mouth and spoke around in the way he knew always annoyed his younger brother.  
"You're not happy to see me...?" Gabriel teased.  
"I wasn't expecting company," Castiel replied with a nonchalant shrug. "How did you get in?" Gabriel gave him a deadpan look and said, "Hello-o, criminal. Not like I've never picked a lock before."  
"You'd pick your own brother's lock?" Castiel asked, feigning innocence.  
"And you wouldn't?" Castiel smiled.  
"Touché. Now, what are you doing out?"  
"I'm on parole," Gabriel answered, flopping down on Castiel's deep postmodern sofa. "Time off for good behaviour." Castiel raised his eyebrows and sat next to him, pulling off his black Converse. "Ah, don't look so surprised, Cas. I can be good, when I want to."  
"Which is...?"  
"Which is when there's something in it for me. God, you act like I'm a stranger to you," Gabriel whined melodramatically, turning on the television.  
"You might as well be," Castiel grumbled, "for all the time you've been in prison."  
"Ouch," Gabriel muttered. "That's low, Cassie."  
"Gabriel-" Castiel replied patiently.  
"You're cutting me deep, brother," he went on, only joking with him now. He set his sock-clad feet on the low coffee table and flicked through the channels on the television.  
"So what've you been up to?" he asked, glancing over at Castiel. He decided not to mention Dean, because if Gabriel found out he was dating a cop he'd have both of their heads by the end of the day.  
"Not too much," he shrugged. "Sleeping. Eating. Typical human behaviour. And you?" He looked over to his brother with a small smirk curling his lips.  
"Oh, you know, the usual. Yachting. Enjoying the company of the young and beautiful. Generally basking in the glow of my wealth and fortune," Gabriel replied with sarcasm heavy in his voice, sitting up and brightening considerably when the theme song of a familiar medical drama started up on the television. Castiel rolled his eyes but didn't argue, figuring he'd indulge his brother since he'd just gotten out of prison. Then again, though, it wasn't a big deal-Gabriel was always in and out never for too long at once, but still. It was, Castiel knew, because he talked back to the officers who usually would write him a ticket and send him on his way. Lucas tended to get off without a hitch because of the charisma he oozed (a few hundred dollars slipped into the pocket of the cop tended to help him along, too). Michael was just so respectful a saccharine, and if that failed he went with blatant threats on which he always followed through. Castiel's technique was now, it seemed, to infatuate the policeman, and it worked so far, to his pleasant surprise. 

          "Doctor Sexy, M.D. was filmed in front of a live studio audience," stated the deep and resonant voice of the announcer.  
"Man, I missed this show," Gabriel grinned, clearly settling in for an evening of poorly-written dialogue and melodramatic background music.  
"You missed Dr. Sexy," Castiel pointed out.  
"It's the cowboy boots, Cas. They do things to me." Castiel swatted his brother's arm with a small laugh and turned his attention to the view from his wide loft window, looking out onto the soaring city. 

          "I take it you've already raided my pantry?" he asked his brother. Gabriel nodded.  
"And set up in your guest bedroom." Castiel sighed.  
"Why can't you just go back to the "pleasure-plex"?" he asked. Gabriel's house, out in the Hamptons, as close to the city as one could get and still live well, was referred to as the "pleasure-plex" on account of the constant parade of women (and men, depending on Gabriel's mood).  
"What, a guy can't just stop by and see his baby brother from time to time?" Gabriel teased, nudging Castiel with his shoulder. "Now shut up. I'm trying to watch." The younger Novak sighed again and slumped down in his chair, unwilling to admit that he didn't exactly hate his brother's company. Though they teased, taunted, and harassed each other nonstop, each liked and arguably needed the other. Gabriel's eyes were glued forward as a scandal-inciting tryst in the janitor's closet unfolded on the screen in front of them. Castiel stared out the window, meanwhile, and wondered uncharacteristically where Dean was, and what he was doing, hoping for his safety as night fell over the city. 

          Castiel woke up the next morning lying on the sofa alone, television turned off, the entire loft filled with nothing but silence. Not for long, that is, because then he hears two soft parallel thuds from his guest room and panics at first. He sat up with a start and wrapped the soft fleecy blanket that covered him around his shoulders, making his way to the door to grab his knife. With brothers as rich and powerful in the criminal underworld as his are, he can't afford to not be able to protect himself. Before Michael made him take self-defence classes, he was an ardent pacifist-he didn't even get involved in fights at school. But now he knew how to throw a punch and though he'd only do it by necessity, he'd do it all the same. He wrapped his fingers tight around the knife's handle, polished metal cool and somehow comforting under his fingers, and walked down the short hallway to nudge open the guest room door. He was greeted by, of all people, his tired-looking brother, hair mussed from sleep, rubbing his eyes. He obviously doesn't register the knife in Castiel's hand, since he murmurs a sleepy, "Morning, Cassie," before trudging past him and into the kitchen for some food. 

          "Where's breakfast?" he asked, words slightly slurred with sleep. Last night comes back to Castiel in waves-Doctor Sexy. Prison. Gabriel. Dean. Dinner.  
 _Dinner._  
"I'm not your maid, Gabriel," Castiel muttered, following his brother into the spacious kitchen and opening the fridge to scan it's contents, fresh and verdantly coloured, all the food from the market down the block from his loft. "What do you want?" he asked, despite his comment earlier.  
"Chocolate chip pancakes," Gabriel replied, hopping up to sit on the counter.  
"What are you, five?" Castiel teased. "Get down from there, Gabriel. I swear, sometimes I forget I'm the younger brother." Gabriel rolled his eyes and dragged in a chair from the living room, perching on it and swinging his legs idly. Castiel assembled the ingredients and supplies necessary for the breakfast Gabriel requested and without thinking it over even for as second asked, "What does one wear on a dinner date?" Gabriel's jaw practically hits the floor and he leaps from his chair.  
"You're dating? Who? When? Tell me about him!"  
"Slow down, Gabriel," Castiel chuckled, putting up a hand almost as though Gabriel was physically charging him and Castiel would have to stop him. Castiel didn't date; that was a fact. He had sex, sure, on occasion-not as rampantly as Gabriel, but still. He didn't date. The closest he ever got was coffee the next morning. And he never really missed it, since dating was awkward and he didn't exactly want companionship. The way he saw it, a one-night stand got him what he needed, so why go in for anything more? It was just going to get him and the other person hurt, especially based on who he was and the life he and his family led-it could only end badly. 

          But Dean was special. Castiel wondered for a second at what had come over him to make Dean "special" but rather than obsess he just let it happen, letting it wash over him in warm, if slightly panic-inducing, waves.  
"It's just a person I met yesterday. We talked. He gave me his number. I invited him out for dinner. It's probably not even a long-term thing," he dismissed with a shrug, pouring more sugar than the recipe called for into the silver bowl.  
"Still, though," Gabriel grinned, sitting forward on his hands. "It's a big deal. Don't you think it's a big deal?" Castiel shrugged again, cracking eggs on the edge of the bowl.  
"Frankly, no. It's dinner, Gabriel, we're not getting married. You oughtn't make so much of it," he replied casually, whisking the contents of the bowl. "Come here and pour in the chocolate chips." Gabriel bounded to his feet and walked over to his side, pouring the contents of the jar of chocolate chips into the bowl.  
"What's he like?" he pried.  
"Gabriel-"  
"Tell me!"  
"Gabriel! That is enough chocolate," Castiel admonished, laughing a little. "It's a wonder you're not a obese diabetic, really." Gabriel popped a handful of chocolate chips into his mouth and shrugged.  
"Sex burns a lot of calories," he shrugged from behind a mouthful of chocolate chips. "And I have a lot of sex."  
"Thank you, Gabriel," Castiel sighed sarcastically, stirring together the contents of the bowl before pouring some into a nonstick pan and setting it on the eye of the stove.  
"Well, I know my sex life just fascinates you," Gabriel smirked. 

          "So, speaking of sex, your date."  
"Why do you care?" Castiel groaned, clicking on the flame. Gabriel leaned on the counter, head propped up on his elbow.  
"Cause you're my brother, and I wanna know all about this guy of yours. What's he like? C'mon, spill. Is he hot?"  
"Very," Castiel replied, raising his eyebrows. "An Adonis."  
"Ooh. Where does he work?" Gabriel pried. Castiel did his best not to give his slight nerves away and said, "It's no business if yours."  
"Yes, it is," his brother disagreed. "Your secrecy makes it my business. Now, don't make me use my extensive interrogation skills on you." Castiel rolled his eyes and sighed.  
"He's just a person, Gabriel. We didn't delve into the details of his professional career."  
"But surely he mentioned something," Gabriel persisted. "Unless it's a secret. Unless he's a member of the FBI. Or the CIA." Dead serious, he asked, "...He's not a cop, Cas...is he?" Castiel shuffled his feet and concealed his guilt.  
"Of course not, Gabriel," he replied, after a brief pause. "I wouldn't date a policeman. I'm too smart to do that, not matter how hot that cop may be." Gabriel nodded.  
"Good. You'd better be, Cas," he advised. "Cops're nothing but trouble. Especially to people like us."  
"They'd say the same for us," Castiel muttered.  
"Bet they would," Gabriel agreed. "Look, all I'm saying is, if you want to date a cop, just buy your boyfriend some handcuffs and a badge and use your imagination." Castiel chuckled as he flipped the pancake with a flick of his wrist.  
"I'll be sure to do that, Gabriel," he replied. "Now, how long are you going to be staying here?" Gabriel opened the fridge and took out the orange juice.  
"What, you don't like my company?" he asked innocently.  
"I like it fine, I just need you out of here by tonight." Gabriel smirked and he raised his eyebrows as he poured them each a glass of orange juice.  
"You're planning on coming back with your secret not-a-cop boyfriend?" he teased, quirking an eyebrow.  
"Perhaps. My sex life just fascinates you, doesn't it?" he replied, turning his brother's own line around on him.  
"Endlessly," Gabriel muttered. Castiel set down the frying pan on the table, the pancake now browned with tiny specks of darker brown chocolate throughout. Castiel complained about Gabriel's diet, but didn't mind when he had to abide it. He would never, he knew, cook chocolate chip pancakes without his brother's coaxing, however much he enjoyed eating them. He flipped the pancake onto Gabriel's waiting plate and said, "Be sparing with the syrup, I'm nearly out."  
"Me and my crime empire will restock ya," Gabriel dismissed, smothering his food in syrup.  
"I don't want any of your blood syrup," Castiel teased, preparing himself a pancake.  
"You always used to say that," Gabriel chuckled, cramming a forkful of pancake in this mouth. "Before you came around."  
"I would be hesitant to call what I did "coming around," Castiel replied, flipping the pancake and catching it back in the pan. He did it again, at this point showing off more than anything else, and set the pan back on the stove. "How are they?"  
"Delicious. Although they could use a little more chocolate," he answered. With an irritated groan, he pushed the chocolate chip jar across the counter to his brother, who grinned and snatched it up eagerly. "Thanks, Cassie. You know me so well," he mumbled from behind a mouthful of chocolate chips.  
"Too well," Castiel laughed, grabbing a handful of chocolate chips for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know...it's way late. I'm sorry, my real life has been hell lately. But hopefully the next chapter will make up for it...?


	4. Privilege and Flowers

          After finishing his pancakes, Gabriel ate another few handfuls of chocolate chips and walked into the den to slump down on the couch.  
"So, your pretty-boy boyfriend," he began. Castiel followed him with a steaming mug of coffee and sat down in his deep black leather armchair.  
"What of him?" Castiel asked with raised eyebrows, stirring the cream into his coffee. He watched the white swirl distractedly, clinking the spoon against the sides of the cup.  
"Tell me about him."  
"What more is there to tell?!" Castiel asked, mildly annoyed. "He's attractive. Not a cop. In fact, he works at a bakery," he lied deftly, not even flinching as the words rolled off his tongue. Granted, Dean did not seem like the bakery type, but Gabriel would be distracted enough that he wouldn't ask again. Castiel, after all, had planned the date as a one-off-there'd be food, and talking, and maybe Cas would invite Dean back to the apartment for "coffee" after. But then, nothing else.  
"A bakery?" Gabriel asked, smirking. "You never said that. He'll have to hook me up with some pastries."  
Castiel chuckled. "I will do my best," he smiled faintly.  
"You'd better. Cause if I don't get my food I'm gonna sic some hit men on him." Castiel glared at him.  
"Don't even suggest such a thing, Gabriel Novak. Believe me, if I need to use your hit men I will let you know, without a doubt," he replied. Gabriel raised his eyebrows.  
"I was kidding, Cassie, jeez. For the brother of a mobster you've got a lot of issues with violence." Castiel rolled his eyes.  
"Even if I were not part of your little criminal empire I would still have a lot of issues with violence. Especially poorly timed violence. Especially poorly times violence against attractive bakers I have dates with." Gabriel sighed.  
"Whatever, Cas. Although I'll have you know that if he's not who he says he is, and he hurts you, I'm gonna go full-on overprotective brother on his ass. No matter how nice it may be. Got it?"  
"Sir, yes, sir," Castiel grumbled. 

          Castiel didn't work that day. He didn't leave the neighbourhood, in fact; the farthest he went was down the street for some lunch with his brother, god knows why he got to come along. At two hours to six, he returned home and demanded that his brother stay out of his way while he got ready.  
"Where are you going?" Gabriel asked from the doorway of Cas' bedroom. Cas threw his clothes on the bed and shut his massive closet.  
"Le Petit Soire. It means "The Little Evening" in French. It's Amelia's place." Gabriel nodded.  
"Good choice. Did you use your privilege?" "Your privilege" was just an easy way to say "calling in a favour from when we either killed or did not kill someone in the past." In Amelia's case, it had been the rescue of her daughter from a kidnapper and the murder of said kidnapper. Amelia was a nice woman, and so all the Novaks asked in return was the occasional seat at her restaurant and a booth in the back that would be reserved for them.  
"How else could I make day-before reservations, Gabriel?" Castiel asked. Gabriel shrugged.  
"I know how you hate your privilege," he replied. And he was right. Whereas Gabriel threw his privilege around like nothing, Castiel used it sparingly and carefully and only with those he knew could afford to do favours. People who knew his line of work referred to him as "the nicest murderer ever." When he was in deep, back when he was younger, they used to call him "Angel" because he was kinder than most to those who needed his help, especially those who didn't deserve it. 

          Castiel sent Gabriel to the store, more to distract him then to run an actual errand, and got ready. He showered, not just to get clean, and dressed, and was gone before Gabriel got back. He gave himself ten more minutes than he needed to catch a cab down to Le Petit Soire. There was no cop car out front when he arrived at the small, tucked-away brick building, and Castiel scanned the gathered cars for one that looked like Dean's. There was a limousine, an instant no, some four-door sedans, also a no, and, near the front door, a black Chevrolet Impala. Now, that was Dean Winchester's car. Sleek and dark and sexy and smooth, the officer was that car, personified. Castiel hopped out of the taxi and payed his fare, heading inside to meet Dean. 

         The officer was lingering by the door, waiting for his date to arrive. He'd dressed up in the suit he wore for work investigations, and he'd even got Cas some flowers, pretty tulips. Charlie, the girl who did paperwork at the precinct, said roses were predictable, so he went down to a little florists market on his way here and picked up two tulips for him, in a bouquet with ivy and larkspurs to fill it out. When Castiel arrived, Dean's heart about stopped in his chest. He looked remarkable, out of his stained work clothes, in a black button-down shirt and nice pants that showed off certain things and left others to his oh so active imagination. The blue tie he wore matched his eyes beautifully and their verdant clarity impossible to miss.  
"Hello, Dean," he smiled, striding through the doors. "Is it Dean when you're off work, or is it still Officer Winchester to little old me?" he asked with a teasing smirk, voice gravel-rough and smooth and doing such things to the officer.  
"Dean's just fine," Dean replied when he'd found his words. "Got ya these." He offered Cas the bouquet and the other man grinned.  
"You have an impressive eye for colour, Dean," he smiled. "You assembled the bouquet yourself?" Dean blushed and shuffled his feet.  
"I mean, I...it wasn't hard." He smirked. "What, you think just cause I'm a big strong cop means I got no soft side?"  
"I never said you were strong," Castiel smirked. "And I never recall commenting on your size, either," he added teasingly. He passed Dean, holding his flowers in one hand, grabbing the slightly dumbfounded Dean's by the wrist with the other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this is way late. I'm sorry. But hey, I'm on summer break now, which means I have literally nothing else on my plate apart from this. I've been kinda obsessed with flowers lately (I wrote a whole ficlet about them...it's called A Language of Pollen and Petals, and you can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1747049), so that's why they're so detailed. More will be posted soon...hopefully before Monday, so I can atone for my sins. Thanks for reading!


End file.
